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BUSHER'S GIRL 



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BUSHING COMPANY 



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A Strong List From Which to Select Your 
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FARM FOLKS. A Rural Play in Four Acts, by Arthur 
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THE OLD DAIRY HOMESTEAD. A Rural Comedy 
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fernales. Time, two hours. Rural costumes. Scenes rural ex- 
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A "WHITE MOUNTAIN BOY. A Strong Melodrama in 
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THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



Busher's Girl 



A Comedy in Three Acts 



By 
F. RONEY WEIR 




PHILADELPHIA 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COiMPANY 

1915 






Copyright 1915 by The Penn Publishing Company 



©cm 42168 

TMP92-007503 

Pusher's Girl N.QV 3 1915 



Busher's Girl 



CHARACTERS 

Mr. Pride of Chicago 

Helen Pride ...... his daughter 

Petunia BusHER, . native of Slab County, Washington 
Doctor {and justice of tJie peace^ James Busher. 
Lambert Ames . a young 7nill worker and rancher 

Mrs. Busher, and the ten Busher cJiildren {may be omitted) 

Time. — One hour and a half. 



STORY OF THE PLAY 

Mr. Pride of Chicago has lost his money and, with his 
mercenary daughter Helen, is living in a Western lumber 
camp. Helen amuses herself with Lambert Ames, a small 
rancher and mill worker. Petunia, daughter of lazy Jim 
Busher, is a girl with a heart of gold, and secretly loves 
Ames, but is too proud to try to win him. He inherits a 
fortune, and Helen determines to marry him. Petunia is 
going away, but Lambert hears something that maizes him 
think she loves him. He pretends to be poor and wounded. 
Helen deserts him promptly, but Petunia comes back to 
nurse him, and is glad at last to be Ames' wife instead of 
"just Busher's girl." 



COSTUMES, ETC. 

Pride. Fifty. First act, smart business suit. Second 
act, soft shirt and trousers. Thirt act, business suit. 

Helen. Twenty-three. First act, street suit, hat and 
gloves. Second act, simple but stylish house dress. Third 
act, street suit. 

Petunia. Twenty. First and second acts, plain but 
pretty gingham working dress. Third act, plain business 
suit and small hat. 

BusHER. Fifty. Overalls and collarless shirt. Old felt 
hat. 

Lambert. Twenty-five. Well-dressed young ranchman, 
in trousers and clean cotton shirt. Heavy boots. 



PROPERTIES 

Petunia. Dog chain, dish-cloth, towels, frying-pan. 

Ames. Pitcher of milk and saucer, plate of bone, pocket 
knife, sheet from cot, marriage license. 

BusHER. Medicine bottles of all sizes and colors, several 
miscellaneous packages, letter, newspaper bmidle containing 
a pair of old boots, pipe. 

Helen. Cards. 

Pride. Two letters. 



SCENE PLOT 



EXTE RIOR BACKING INTERIOR BACKING (WALL) 

I STAIR3 




SCENE.— Acts I, II and III. Kitchen of Lambert 
Ames; a plain, comfortable room, stove up l., tables R. 

4 



SCENE PLOT 



and L. Cupboard up c. Shelves up l. Hooks for cloth- 
ing at R. Entrances up c, up r. and at L. A stepladder 
with side covered with wood. Cloth or pasteboard will 
suffice for stairs shown at door c. Only two or three steps 
need be in sight. 



Busher's Girl 



ACT I 

SCENE. — Interior of Ames' house. Door, l. Door in 
hack wall, r. Stair door, c. ; cook-stove to left of stair 
door. Kitchen table, I.. Chair down w. Small table atid 
hooks for hanging clothing, r. 2 able, L., and stove cov- 
ered with kettles and dishes in disorder. 

{At rise of curtain, room is empty. Knocking at door up r. 
which opens slowly to adtnit Mr. Pride and Helen 
Pride.) 

Pride. Hello, the house ! Hello ! 

(^Knocks on inside of door.') 

Helen ingoing l., looking about disdaiiif idly). Nobody 
at home but the kitchen fire and that's going out. Does the 
young man live here alone ? 

Pride (closing door and coming down r.). Yes. His 
sister was married last week and has gone East. 

Helen {corning do7vn l.). And are you sure this is the 
Ames house, papa ? 

Pride. Quite sure. It is the only two-story house in 
the neighborhood. "The house with stairs," the natives 
call it. It is supposed to be quite a mansion. 

Helen {laughing sarcastically). And to think that we 
should come down to living in such a — sty as this ! 

Pride {down r.). You have yourself to thank for it. 
And besides, we may not get a chance to live in this house. 
The fellow was not at all keen about renting to us. It's this 
house or a two-roomed shack, and as 1 said before, you 
have nobody but yourself to thank that we were driven to 
the coast. If you had accepted Shocklon his money would 
have enabled me to pull through. 

Helen. But Mr. Shockton was such a horrible old crea- 
ture, papa ! 

7 



8 busher's girl 

Pride. You wouldn't have thought so if there had been 
no Harold Lamar with which to compare him ! 

Helen. How was 1 to know? 1, so young — so — so 
ignorant. But I am sorry now, papa, and 1 promise to 
marry any rich man you will produce to get you and myself 
out of this horror ! (Shiidd/ers.) 

Pkide. Old Shocktons are not to be picked up in a 
Noilhvvest shingle-camp. At least not in a one-horse one 
like this. People about here are as poor as poverty. I shall 
be rated a bloated aristocrat because 1 own an interest in 
this old rattletrap of a shingle mill. The income of the 
thing will amount to nothing this first year — perhaps never 
will amount to anything unless 1 can knock the business into 
some sort of shape. 

(JSiis K. and begins to figure npon a scrap of paper which 
he takes from his pocket.) 

Helen {inoving about the room). I presume we really 
haven't any business in this house when its owner is away 
from home. Who is he? 

Pride. A small rancher who sometimes works in the 
mill. 

Helen. It's a horrid place. Where are the stairs? 

( Opens door to the right of stove disclosing a flight of very 
perpendicular stairs with very narrow treads ; a step- 
ladder may be made to serve for this. Turns to her 
father and they both laugh. She closes tJte door quickly 
at sou?id of a dog fight without and a girl's voice heard 
trying to quell the fight. Door up r. files open and 
Petunia Busher appears, luuiging to the end of a jerk- 
ing chain and yelling to afi unseen dog.) 

Petunia. Go home! Go home, I tell you! {Then 
over her shoulder through the door.) Lammie ! Lammie 
Ames, come out here and tie up your dog ! The hound 
tagged me over and treed your cat and then Shep pitched 
in, and Fve had a time, I tell you ! Come along out and 
tie up Shep. (Catches sight of Hki.kn.) Hully gracious, 
Lammie's got company. — Is Mr. Ames in there anywhere ? 

Pride. No, he's not in. We have been waiting here 
for him for some time. 



BUSHER S GIRL 9 

(Petunia loses hold on chain and it is heard clanking away 
into the distance.') 

Petunia. There he goes ! Darn that Shep dog ! (^Enters, 
hut retur?is to gaze out of door.) But 1 guess the hound 
has got start enough to make home before Shep can ketch 
him. If Shep gits to foolin' round our house maw'll heave 
a shingle-bolt at him. 

( Coifies in, hangs up her battered hat, rolls up her sleeves y 
goes to shelves up l. and gets dish-cloth.) 

Helen {iip c). Are you going to wash the dishes? 

Petunia. Yep. 

Helen {i?i an amused and superior man?ier). Does the 
owner of this house hire you to do his work ? 

Petunia (^taking hot water from stove and pouring into 
pan, etc.). He hires maw, but maw got kicked by a mule 
to-day an' it busted her up so she can't navigate. 

Helen. Oh, how unfortunate. What was your mother 
doing with a mule ? 

Petunia. We're a-breakin* the twenty. 

Helen. You have no father, then ? 

(Petunia at back of table, facing audience, washes dishes. 
She gives Helen a scornful glance.) 

Petunia. I should say I have ! Dr. James Busher, dis- 
trict of the peace for Slab County, is my father. 

(^Clatters among the dishes.) 

Helen. Why doesn't your father do the ploughing? 

Petunia. When it comes to eatin* an' bossin' fathers 
are right there with the goods, but when it comes to ploughin' 
the patch with a borried mule give me a woman every 
time. (Puts in more dishes.) 

Pride. I think I will walk down toward the mill. I 
may meet Mr. — eh — the young man who owns the house. 

{Exit.) 

Petunia. That your husband? 

Helen. No, my father. Do you think it would be 
right for a young person like me to be married to an old 
man like that? {Sits, r.) 

Petunia. Well, I should say nit ! Nor a young one 



10 BUSHER S GIRL 

either. (^S/ie rolls up a dish-towel and tosses it at Helen.) 
While you're a-settin' you might as well dry the dishes for 
me. There's a lot to do here, an' I've got to hike home to 
git supper for paw an' the boys. 

Helen {dodging towel, then picking it tip, brushing if 
gingerly and wiping dishes). You have brothers, then ? 

Petunia. Yep; four. 

Helen {putting iviped dishes on table, R.). How nice. 
And you are the only girl ? 

Petunia. Well, now, not exactly. 

Helen. It must be delightful to have a sister. 

Petunia. Sister ! 

Helen. You have more than one? 

Petunia. Well, now, I should think so. 

Helen. How many have you ? 

Petunia. Let's see-e-e-e; there's Lily, Anne, Renie, 
Tote, Louise an' Nancy — you may put the dishes in that 
there cupboard by the door. 

Helen {putting dishes aivay as directed). What are 
those shelves for? {Indicates shelves ?iear stove.) 

Petunia. Those are to dry your overalls on an' keep 
your tobacco an' flea-powder where you can find 'em. 

Helen. And you don't approve of men? 

Petunia. Well, I should say me for the negative ! Do 
you? 

Helen. Oh, really, it depends on the man. (Dreamily.) 
If he is big, and handsome and young, blue-eyed and ten- 
der, and has a lot of money 

Petunia {reflectively). Lammie Ames is all them — ex- 
cept one. 

Helen. And that ** one" is sure to be the indispensable 
requisite. 

Petunia. He ain't rich, if that's what you mean. 

Helen {smiling and glancing sarcastically about room). 
I should imagine not. 

Petunia. Well, now, don't you let your imagination git 
away with yeh. Miss VVhat's-yer-name. Lammie Ames ain't 
rich himself, but he's got mighty high-toned relations back 
East. He's got an aunt back there some'rs that owns a great 
big chunk o' land right in the bosom of a city ; a chunk so 
big that it makes a feller's head whizzle to think of it. 

Helen (c). Indeed? How interesting. 

Petunia. You bet " indeed " ! When Lammie's sister 



BUSHER S GIRL II 

Mary got married last month her aunt sent her a weddin' 
dress Oh, gosh, but it was swell! (^Steps from be- 
hind table to describe dress. Still holding dripping dish- 
cloth in one hand she illustrates against Helen 's<'/r<?^j' and 
hair, Helen nieanivhile shrinking fro7?i contact with dish- 
cloth.') It had a satin panel about so wide which run down 
to a pleat right about here — and the cutest little bunch of 
white posies riglit about here — no, I guess that buncli was 
just about here — and a veil that come 'round to here and 
then just squshed right out on both sides, like water runnin* 
out of her ears — oh, it was Star A, number one ! 

Helen. Must have been beautiful. 1 should think this 
young Ames would go East and live with his aunt. 

Petunia. 1 s'pose his aunt don't want him to; and 
Lammie wouldn't go if she did. He likes the climate out 
here, and he likes his farm and he likes his mill work 

Helen (ivearily). What does he do in the mill? 

Petunia. Why, just now he's dogup man. 

Helen. I don't know what that means — dogup man. 

Petunia {scornfully). Don't know what a dogup man 
means? Why, he fastens the logs together so they can be 
hauled to the mill. What part of the country did you come 
from, anyway? 

Helen {tragically). From Chicago! Dear old Chicago ! 
Oh, how 1 long to go back to the lights — to the music — oh, 
the mad music ! Shall I ever hear it again ? Shall I ever 
tango as I have tangoed in the past, from ten at night until 
five in the morning? 

Petunia. I've seen that there word, tango, in the '' Daily 
Star" 

Helen. And, of course, because you are young you 
longed to try it. 

Petunia. Why, no, I can't say as I did. What is it, 
anyhow ? 

Helen. A dance. The most passionately fascinating 
that has ever been evolved {Takes a few steps.) 

Petunia. Oh ! I thought it was some kind of a Jap 
sausage. 

Helen. I will show you how it is done. 

{Business of teaching Petunia to tango. At end of per - 
forma?ice Petunia goes back to the dishes, L., with hand 
on side, and puffing fro7n exertion.) 



12 BUSHER S GIRL 

Petunia. Say, that's wuss'n mushiii' up grade packin* 
two buckets of brick ! 1 wouldn't want to work at that 
steady. 

Helen. Nonsense ! With Harold Lamar for partner it 
was heaven — nothing less. {With a tragic shrug of shoul- 
ders and upward movemejit of palms.) But I am out of it 
all forever ! 1 shall never again hear the muffled roar of the 
dear old streets, or smell the perfume 

Petunia. Say, that's where the stock yards are, ain't it? 

Helen. of the flowery parks and the lake — I have 

thrown it all away ! Life is over for me — all the life of the 
city ! 

Petunia. Well, now, let me put yeh wise : We've got 
some smells out here, I want to state. You step into the 
slashin' when the sun gits busy with the down timber — the 

cedar and the fir Say ! the sweetness makes yeh ketch 

your breath ! An' not many miles from here there's an 
ocean that fur smells would make your little old jerkwater 
lake git down on its knees an' beg, an' that's straight. 

Helen. Oh, but the life 

Petunia. Well, as for the life, we eat an' drink an* sleep 
an' die an' are born just the same as folks do in Chicago. 
Wherever there's men an' women an' dogs an' childern an' 
mules there's life. You don't have to jostle elbows in a city 
in order to see life. It goes on just about the same every- 
where. We've got all kinds of folks, too. 1 could stand 
out on that there knoll by the fence an' sling this dish-clout 
and hit as good a man as walks the airth, or as hard workin' 
a one, or as lazy a one — an' 1 ain't hintin' who the last one 
is, nuther ! 

Helen. Is it the owner of this house? 

Petunia. Not on your photograph ! Lammie Ames 
ain't no shirk ! 

Helen. Does your father work in the shingle mill? 

Petunia. He used to ; he handled a cant-hook fur a 
spell, but he don't work no more. It don't agree with him. 
He's an inventor. 

Helen. Of what? 

Petunia. Oh, medicine fur different things — mostly for 
warts. You take it innerly. It's a perventative. 

Helen. I think you are a good deal interested in this 
young Ames. 

Petunia. Who, me? Well, now, you're off your trol- 



BUSHER S GIRL 



13 



ley, an' off bad. No sweethearting fur me, I betcher ! I 
know what it leads to. 

Helen {down k.). Nothing terrible, to be sure. 

Petunia. Yes, it does. (//^ a solemn hiss.) It leads 
to marriage ! 

Helen {laughing). Is that so terrible? 

Petunia. You bet ! I've seen it — right in our own fam- 
ily. It may be all right fur the men, but it's jest plain mis- 
ery fur the women. Ask maw ! No, sir ! I ain't lookin* 
for no man. 

(^Grasps the dish-pan by both handles and carries it to the 
door tip R. c, where she heaves its contents over Pkide 
ajid Lambert Ames, who are about to enter.) 

{Enter Pride and Ames, dripping.^ 

Ames. Tunie, how many times have I told you not to 
heave your dish-water out like that? {Vet\]nik swabs at 
Ames with the dish-towel, Helen helps her angry father. 
Both girls convulsed with laughter, but trying to hide it from 
the j?ien.') What are you doing here, anyhow, Tunie? 
Where is your mother? 

Petunia. That Stephen mule kicked maw in the shin an' 
she's shut down fur one while. And that reminds me I got 
to hike home an' git supper fur paw an' the boys, or there'll 
be doin's up to Pusher's. 

Pride {still brushing and rubbing; to Ames). If you 
will be good enough to show my daughter and myself over 
the house I shall be obliged. The rig is waiting to take us 
back to the village. 

Ames, Certainly. Just a minute, please. {Peers be- 
hind stove. ^ Tunie, where's Cat-Betsy? 

Petunia {starting guiltily and clapping her palms to her 
cheeks). Honest, Lammie, I forgot all about Cat-Betsy. 
When I started to come over here I shut the hound up, but 
paw must 'a' let him out. He follered me and treed Cat- 
Betsy, an' then your dog jumped him an' they had a tussle, 
an' 1 got the chain on Shep an' he got away, an' I come in 
and found you had company, an' 

Pride (l., interrupting, with watch in hand). If you 
will show us the house 

Ames. Just a minute, please. {Goes to cupboard a?id 



14 BUSHER S GIRL 

pours out a saucer of milk ^ which he carries to the door.) 
Kitty, kitty, kitty ! 

[Goes out up R., followed by Petunia.) 

Pride. I wonder how long he thinks he can keep us 
hanging around here ? If lie doesn't care to rent his house 
we can look up another, 1 presume. 

Helen (tnockingly). Remember, it is the only house 
with stairs. 

Pkide. I think we might manage without those stairs. 

Helen. It is all horrible ! Sordid and horrible ! 

Pride. You have yourself to thank for it. You had it 
in your power to keep both yourself and me out of it. 

Helen. Father, 1 couldn't marry that hideous old man ! 
Ugh ! The thought of him makes me shudder ! 

Pride. Pooh ! It wasn't the fact of his being old which 
prevented your marrying him. If he had been twenty-four 
it would have been the same. It was because he wasn't 
Harold Lamar; that was the reason, miss. 

Helen. Try me with a young rich man and see ! 

(^Enter Ames and Petunia. Pride looks at watch again 
impatiently. ) 

Pride. Well, what about the house? We haven't much 
more time to wait. 

Ames. Just a minute. (^Goes to cupboard, from the bot- 
tom of ivhich he brings out a plate of bones, explainins^.) 
For the dog. (^He and Petunia prepare a tremendous dish 
of food at table tip l.) Shep is a hearty eater. 

(^Carries bones to door, where he whistles. Pride stamps 
about impatiently. Helen disgusted. Ames goes out, 
returns with ejnpfy plate which he puts on table, R.) 

Pride. Really, if you care to rent us your house you 
must allow us to look it over, and then we must go. 

Ames (^opening the stair door'). Well, there are the 
stairs; help yourselves. No danger of getting lost up there. 
Walk right up and inspect the chamber. Two beautiful 
bedrooms, one with a sea view, and the other with a row of 
hooks upon which to hang your clothes. Perhaps Tunie 
has time to go up with you and show you 'round. 

Petunia (/// l.). Well, now, nix fur yours truly. 



BUSHER S GIRL 



15 



Tunic's got to bustle home an' git Dr. James Busher's sup- 
per, or he'll be hot-footin' over here all ruffed up like a 
settin' hen. (^Goes r. and puts oti hat.) 

Pride. Oh, there's nothing to hinder our going up alone, 
if you don't object. 

(^He starts up stairs^ turns ^ gives Helen a hafid to assist 
her to follow J and they scramble up out of sight.) 

Petunia (jip r., tragically). Lammie, if they take this 
house what's to become of Cat-Betsy and the kittens? 

Ames (/// l., startled by 7iew idea). Cat-Betsy would 
go with the house. 

Petunia (^scornfully). Huh ! I've got a photograph 
of that young Dotty-Dimple runnin' with a plate of fish for 
Cat-Betsy, 1 have ! 

(Ames troubled. Sound of arrival without^ voice calling 
^^Whoaf Whoa, coifoundyeh, whoa!'' Door opens 
to admit head of Dr. James Busher.) 

BusHER. Hey, Lambert, I've brought Stephen ! 

Ames. Well, take him to the barn and give him his oats. 

(^Enter Busher, up r.) 

Busher. Since when have I become your mule-tender? 

Ames. You've had the use of the mule all day, haven't 
you? 

Busher. I should say not ! He kicked Julia this fore- 
noon about 'leven, and he's stood tied to the fence ever 
since. In reality, Lambert, you ought to pay me damages, 

but because of our long-standin' friendship (Stops 

suddenly and tips chin toward ceiling in listeiiing attitude.) 
What's that noise up-stairs? Your house ain't ha'nted, is 
it, Lambert? 

Ames {up l.). Mr. Pride, the new man in the mill, and 
his daughter are up stairs looking over the chamber. He's 
thinking of renting the house. 

Busher (up c). Renting this house? Lambert, I didn't 
think that of you ! Rent your house to a perfect stranger ? 

Ames. I thought of it. 

Busher. And you knew that I was lookin' for a house, 
my family long ago havin' outgrown my present residence. 
I will rent your house. 



i6 busher's girl 

Ames. No, you won't ! I'm going to rent it to Pride if 
he wants it. 

Petunia {iip r.). Lammie, what will become of Shep 
if you rent your house to them folks ? 

Ames {worried^. Why, Great Gratitude, Tunie, haven't 
these folks got tjj keep a dog ? 

Petunia {coming dowti r.). You think that old sour- 
dough up there will stand fur a dog? Not on your night- 
cap ! And what would you do with Stephen ? 

Ames. Couldn't your folks keep Stephen.? 

BusHER. No, we could not keep Stephen. Stephen 
ain't fit for a woman to drive. I've got some consideration 
for my wife. I'm goin' to bone Ole Oieson to lend me his 
horse. Now, you see, if you were to rent me your place we 
could take care of your entire menagerie and pay the rent 
that way. 

Petunia. And you could board with us. Maw makes 
corkin' pancakes, an' you've tasted my bread. 

Ames {suddenly tnaking up his mind^. All right. I'll 
tell this man he can't have the house 

(JVoise of falling down-stairs. Bush er jumps toward door, 
R. The stair door is burst open and Pride rolls into the 
middle of the floor and lies still. Helen shrieks and 
comes creeping carefully down-stairs backward.^ 

Helen. Your horrid old stairs are dreadful ! Are you 
hurt, papa? {^B ends over her father.') 

Pride (sitting up). Every bone in my body is broken ! 
Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! Is there a doctor anywhere in reach 
of this forsaken hole? 

Busher {shelling out bottles of different sizes from all 
of his pockets and putting them on the table ^ R,). We can 
fix you up right here and now, mister. ( Goes to Pride and 
exainines him for injuries. Fingers on Pride's leg.) When 
I strike a break you yell. 

Pride. Ouch ! Get away, you fool I 

Busher. Be ca'm, be ca'm. I thought I'd strike some- 
thing pretty soon. Your leg ain't broke, it's sprained. 

Pride. And so is my shoulder, and my back, and my 
elbows ! 

Busher. I dare say. But we'll fix all that in a jiffy. I 
have something here. {Shakes villainous-looking bottle.) 



BUSHER S GIRL 



17 



It is the Unsurpassed Golden Wart Elixir, but it is also the 
most wonderful, all-round do-good that was ever invented. 
My wife was kicked by a mule this forenoon, but by the 
judicious use of this concoction she is now up an' gittin* 
supper. Petunie, you lazy scad, why ain't you home helpin' 
your maw ? 

(^Afen lift Pride a7id put him into a chair doivn r. He 
groans. Helen goes to him down R. Petunia goes 
up c.) 

Pride. We shall be obliged to rent this place now. I 
sha'n't be able to get out of this for months ! 

Helen {down r., despairingly). Those horrid old stairs ! 

Petunia. Poor Cat-Betsy ! 

Ames {crossing to l. ). And poor Shep ! 

Petunia (up c). And poor old Stephen ! 

BusHER ([<.). Now, ain't that just my luck? I've 
always wanted to live in a house with stairs, and this is the 
nearest I've ever come to it ! 

Helen (to Ames), We'll look after your cat. She goes 
with the house. 

Ames. Oh, that will be very good of you. 

Helen. I guess papa broke the stairs. 

Ames, I'll fix them up. 

Helen {sjniling). Thank you. And, if you can, just 
come over now and then to see things are in order. We're 
so new to this sort of thing — you know. 

(Petunia comes down c. ) 

Ames. Oh, yes. I'll keep an eye on the place. 
Petunia (to Helen). Perhaps you think the man goes 
with the house, too. 

Ames. Tunie 

Petunia {fiercely^ to Helen). Well, he don't. 



CURTAIN 



ACT II 

SCENE.—Same as Act I. 

(Pride afid Helen discovered at rise of curtain playing 
cards at table, L. He is in armchair left of table down L., 
she in kitchen chair at right of table. His leg is band- 
aged and sticks out stiffly resting o?i block of wood.) 

Helen (^yawning'). I wonder if Lambert Ames will go 
after the mail to-day. 

Pride. I hope so; I might get a check from Houghton 
and Hall. But I can't understand why you are so anxious 
to get mail. 

Helen. Old Shockton might renew his offer of marriage. 

Pride. You'd turn him down if he did. 

Helen. Would I? Try me ! I'd marry the Wizard of 
Oz if he had money. I don't see what is to become of us. 

Pride. The mill isn't doing so badly since young Ames 
has taken hold of it. He understands the running of it 
better than I do 

(^Cat mews.) 

Helen (throwing down cards and jumping up). There's 
that horrid cat again ! (Ru7is to door, r.) Scat ! Go 
away ! 

(Picks up pebble and thrown it out the door. Returns to 
game. They play.) 

Pride (angrily). What d'yeh mean by trumping your 
own trick ! (Cat mews outside the door. Hele^ Jumps up 
again.) You don't know whether you are playing cards or 
pom- pom- pullaway ! (Helen /^?//i-/ they play.) There 
you go again ! 

(Throws cards at her. Hei. en jumps up weeping, rims to 
R. Pride bumps his chair about until his back is to her 
with his leg sticki?ig stiffly to L.) 

{Enter Ames, at door up r.) 
i8 



busher's girl 19 

Ames (coming dow?i to Helen, anxiously). What's this 
— tears? What is the matter? Poor child, is your father 
worse ? 

Helen (sobbing). He — he — isn't worse ! He couldn't 
be worse ! He is just as bad as he can be 1 He — he's just 
cruel to me ! 

(Fops her head doivn upon Ames' shoulder and weeps. 
Ames, not used to women' s tears ^ is visibly affected by her 
proximity and her emotions. Glares across stage at 
Pride, who glares back over his shoulder^ then pulls hat 
over his eyes and sits sullenly with his back to them.) 

Ames (awkwardly pattifig Hel^^'s head). Well, well ; 
I wouldn't cry. 

(At open door up R. appears Petunia, who carries a lotig- 
handled skillet heaped with scraps. She looks in door. 
Business at sight of tableau.) 

Petunia (very loud). Kiity, kitty, kitty ! (Enters at 
door up R.) Has any one seen anything of Cat-Betsy? 

Pride (over his shoulder). Come here, Helen ! (Helen 
crosses to her father. Petunia and Ames exeunt, door up 
R.) You're a pretty one — weeping on the shoulder of a 
shingle-weaver ! 

Helen. He isn't a shingle-weaver; he's a dogup man. 
I couldn't help it, papa. For a moment he looked so 
like 

Pride. Old Shockton, I presume. 

Helen. Like — like Harold Lamar ! 

Pride, Bah 1 Harold Lamar ! Pm thoroughly dis- 
gusted ! 

Helen. So am I ! You'd no business to bring me out 
here into the wilds with nobody about but a dogup man ! 
A girl has to have somebody to go on with ! 

Pride. Well, dog your dogup man over here to help get 
me to bed. 1 want to take a nap! (Calls to Ames.) 
Hey — you ! Come and help my daughter get me into my 
room. 

Ames (appearing at door tip R. with Petunia). In a 
minute. I must look for the cat first. (Disappears.) 

Petunia (entering and crossing to l.). Didn't you for- 
git suthin' ? (Pkide glares at her superciliously.) 1 say — 
didn't you forgit suLliin' ? 



20 BUSHER S GIRL 

Pride. What do you mean — forget ? 
Petunia. Maw allers taught me to say please, 'specially 
if 1 didn't deserve what I was askin' fur. 

(^Eiiter Ames with empty skillet^ which he gives to Petunia 
and goes L.) 

Ames. Now I'll boost you up, Mr. Pride. {To Helen, 
tenderly.^ No, no, let uje lilt the greatest weight. You 
steady his leg. Petunia, can't you give us a hand? 

Petunia. Nut that anybody knows of! Pvegot a crick 
in muh neck ! (Helen a?id Ames buinpily carry Pride 
tliroiigh the door, L. Petunia, inimickutg.) Let me lift 
the heavy part of the load. You steady his head — that's 
light ! 

{Drops the efupty skillet^ and before it hits the floor kicks it 
out the door. Noise and exclaniatiojis outside. Enter 
Busher. He carries the skillet and has other hand 
pressed to his fore lie ad. Sits down by table, r., iji a 
dazed sort of way, takes out much soiled hafidkerchiefy 
wipes brow and exatnines handkerchief for blood.) 

Busher. Is it swellin' ? 

Petunia {examining her father'' s brow). Naw ! It's 
dirty — that's all. Needs soakin'. 

Busher. It got soaked just now. Strangest thing ever 
happened to me in my life. I was walkin' along thinking 
about my work 

Petunia. About your what? 

Busher. About my wart preventative — and this here new 
liniment that I've made — {taking large bottle from pocket 
and putting it on table) when a skillet right out of a clear 
sky struck me like a thunderbolt — struck me right here. 
Why, it nearly dazed me fur a minute. {Picks up skillet 
and examines it minutely.') Looks like a jicrfectly good 
skillet. {Hands it to Petunia.) Take it home to your 
maw and tell her it's a birthday present from me, • (Petunia 
rather sheepishly takes skillet.) Say, give that here a min- 
ute. {Examines tJie skillet again.) Looks like our skillet, 
but I don't see how it comes to be flyin' round in the air 
way down here. Ain't been no high wind that I know of. 
{Hands it back to Petunia, regarding her suspiciously.) 
Where's the boss ? 



busher's girl 21 

Petunia. Lammie Ames just packed him into the room 
there. {Points!..') 

BusHER. I've brought him some more medicine. {Takes 
out another bottle and puts it on the table, r.) That's 
Lightning Pain Eradicator. {Takes out another,') Neu- 
ralgic's Hope. {Another.) Golden Bone Soother. 

Petunia {uncorking bottles and sniffing each one). 
They're all the same, and they're all made outen merlasses 
an' water, an' you know it, paw. 

(BusHER makes as if to strike her. She skips to L. of stage 
threatefiing him with the skillet.) 

BusHER. Miserable ungrateful little skeezicks ! Moses 
sure knew what he was talkin' about when he said how 
sharper than an achin' tooth it was to have a thinkless 
child! {Takes bottle from table with which to illustrate^ 
and assumes the attitude and to fie of a lecturer.) Don't 
you know that in every ingrejunt — er — ah — solution, there 
has to be a body — a platform, so to speak, to build your 
curative — er — fabrication on ? Well, then : That's where 
your ignorance comes in. {Enter Ames, l.) Now i make 
my remedies on a foundation of merlasses an' water 

Ames. 1 guess that's right, Jim; you build your founda- 
tion and then you lay a molasses floor and put up a corn 
syrup house with a maple sugar cupola. 

BusHER {indignantly loading his bottles into his pocket), 
I'd see you die by inches before I'd give you a drop of my 
medicine ! 

Ames (c). I'm willing to take my chances, but if you 
want a testimonial I will say that I believe your stuff is as 
good as half the dope that's swallowed. 

Busher. How is Mr. Pride? 

Ames. Belter. He's about to the hyena stage now. 

Busher. Hum-m-m, everything is proceeding satisfac- 
torially then, and just as I had planned. 

Ames. You've been reading war bulletins, I see. 

Busher. I'm just fetchin' him some new medicine. 

{Crosses and kfiocks at door of room, L., and is admitted. 
Petunia crosses and goes to door up r.) 

Ames. Wait a minute, Tunie ; I've got some good news 
for you. Miss Pride is going to hire you. 



22 BUSHER S GIRL 

Petunia. What fur ? 

Ames. To help take care of her father. 

Petunia. 1 ain't no animal tamer. 

Ames. Come on back a mijiute. What's your hurry? 

Petunia. I've got to git home. Maw'll be lookin' all 
over creation an' Eurrup for this skillet. 

Ames (^perching on table ^ l.). Come over here and sit 
down. {Indicates chair y l.) 

Petunia (c, facing audience, holding skillet in frofit of 
her in a present arms attitude). 1 don't want to set. 

Ames. What do yoa want to do, then ? 

Petunia. 1 want to stand up here and hold this skillet. 

Ames {provoked). Well, stand up there and hold your 
skillet; 1 don't care, but 1 want to talk to you about Miss 
Pride. She's a delicate little thing, and not used to hard 
work. Not strong, you know. 

Petunia {giving him a look of scor7i over her shoulder 
a7id then bending over the skillet ifi silent laughter). Strong ! 
Say ! Maw 'n' me are clearin' stump land with your mule, 
an' that's supposed to be some hard work. Strike a snag 
once in a while and take a header right up an' over the 
plough an' land in near the stern end of Stephen — that's 
the way maw met up with her accident the other day. Maw 
can stand work like that all right, but she couldn't stand 
doin' this fur hours on a stretch ; nulher could I. {Illus- 
trates by ati exaggerated example of tango as taught her by 
Helen in Act I, with the skillet as partner.) It's funny 
how weak some folks are for work and how strong for 
dancin'. 

Ames [complainingly). You don't like Miss Pride. 

Petunia {shuddering). I love her ! 

Ames {sighing and 7nusi?ig sentimentally). I never saw 
such lovely golden hair. 

Petunia. It's long. 

{Does a pantomime on the side of wifiding a hand in long 
tresses and yanking them unmercifully.) 

Ames. Have you ever seen it down ? 
Petunia. Yep — an' off. 
Ames. Eh ? 

Petunia. I said yes ! Yeh gittin' deaf, Lammie? 
Ames. She's a tender-hearted little thing, don't you 
think, Tunie? 



BUSHER S GIRL 23 

Petunia Don't ask me; I ain't the one to judge. Ask 
somebody who depends on her fur victuals — ask Cat-Betsy. 
Betsy's gittin' to look like a wire rat-trap on legs. 

Ames. Petunia, 1 feel as if I ought to marry and settle 
down. 

Petunia. That's too bad considerin' what poor pickin' 
you've got around here. 

Ames. How do you mean — poor picking ? 

Petunia. Well, there's only three grown women in the 
camp, an' one of them's married. That's maw, an' if she 
was lucky enough to git out of it this time I don't believe 
she'd ever chance it agin. But you never can tell. A 
woman that's made one poor bet is allers hotfoot to stake 
agin. But maw ain't widdered, so that cuts down the 
supply to me an' Miss Pride. I wouldn't have you if you 
was weighted down with diamonds till you was bow-legged — 
an' Miss Pride wouldn't have you unless you was, so there 
you are ! 

Ames. Do you think she is mercenary? 

Petunia. Eh? Oh, I don't know as she is. She's 
healthy enough, I guess. 

Ames. I mean, do you think she wouldn't marry me 
unless I was rich ? 

Petunia. Say, I ain't no matrimonial bureau. If you've 
got a hankering after Miss Pride git in an' rustle. As I 
understand it any old fizzle of a man can git the woman he 
wants if he pesters her long enough. 

Ames. Even you, Tunie ? 

Petunia {with her back to hint). Ain't anybody been 
swarmin' me very hard, as I've noticed. 

{Enter Busher, l.) 

Busher. Say, Lambert, the boss wants me to go down 
to the store and git his mail. 

Ames. Well, what's to hinder? Guess we're all willing. 
Busher. What's the matter with my driving Stephen ? 

{Sits dowfi L.) 

Ames. Nothing the matter except that Stephen isn't 
harnessed. 

Busher. Oh, well, that won't take you long. PU set 
here and rest till you bring him round. 



24 BUSHER S GIRL 

Ames {looking at Busher a mo?nent, then going R. toward 
door J shaking his head and laughing). You get my goat ! 

Busher {lighting pipe). 1 don't care for your goat ; it's 
your mule 1 want just now. I'll bring up your mail, too, 
Lambert, to pay for the use of the animal. 

Ames. You know 1 never have any mail. 

Petunia. There might be a letter from Mary. 

Ames. That's so. 'i'isn't likely, though; Mary's no 
hand to write. 

{Exity up v..) 

Petunia. Well, did the old man buy any of your dope? 

Busher. He did. 

Petunia. How much did he give yeh ? 

Busher. Fifty cents for a bottle of Bone Easer, and a 
dollar for the Heart Regulator. 

Petunia. Got any of that last left? 

Busher. One bottle. ( Takes bottle from pocket and 
puts it on table. Petunia takes bottle from table, looks at 
it, shakes it up, then drinks it.) Here ! What yeh doin', 
Petunie ? 

Petunia. Takin' medicine fur muh heart ; it's goin' 
wrong. 

Busher. Fiddlesticks \ What's yer symptoms ? 

Petunia. I feel ugly toward folks that 1 ain't no busi- 
ness to feel ugly toward. I feel like bitin' ! 

{Snaps her teeth at her father.) 

Busher {drawing back). That ain't heart disease, Pe- 
tunie; that's hydrophobia 1 

Petunia. An' then all to once I feel as if I'd jest got to 
beller right out ! 

{Turns away and crooks an arm, in which she hides her 
face and weeps loudly. Sound of wagon outside. Ames' 
voice, " Whoa, Stephen .' ") 

{Enter Ames through door, r, c. Comes hurriedly doivn 
to Petunia.) 

Ames. Tunie, what in thunder's the matter ? 

{Comes up behiiid her ajid attempts to co7nfort her. She 
kicks backward at him.) 



BUSHER S GIRL 2$ 

Petunia. Git away ! I don't want yeh anywheres round 
me ! 

(^He tries again ; site kicks hifji off.) 

Ames. Busher, you old shim, what have you been saying 
to make her cry like that ? For ten cents I'd knock your 
head off ! 

Busher (^getting up hastily and starting for door up r,). 
I ain't said a single thing — honest I ain't, Lambert ! Petunie 
thinks she's got heart disease, and she's been takin' some of 
my medicine 

Ames. Great Scott, you've killed her ! 

(^Approaches Petunia once more. Same business.') 

Busher. She ain't got any symptoms of heart disease. 

Ames (anxiously). What are the symptoms of heart 
disease ? 

Busher (^squaring himself and beginning oracularly). A 
disinclination to stir about 

Petunia {going up r. a/id handing her father the 
bottle). Here, paw, you take it yourself; you're pretty 
bad off. 

(^Enter Helen, l.) 

Helen. What is the matter? I thought I heard a 
woman crying. 

(Petunia, surreptitiously drying her eyes, motio7is men not 
to tell.) 

Ames. Guess it was the wind in the firs. We're liable 
to have rain soon. Come, Busher, get up steam and start. 
Stephen's getting restless. Whoa, Stephen ! 

Helen. Oh, Mr. Busher, if you are going to the store 
will you please get this bottle filled with glycerine and rose- 
water for me, and buy me a copy of "The Ladies' Home 
Comfort"? And father wants some good cigars, and a 
porous plaster and some shaving-soap, and some arnica. 

Busher (^gallantly). All right, Miss Pride. 

Ames. And you might get a box of canned milk and 
twenty-five pounds of sugar for the cookhouse. 

Busher. Just as you say, Lambert. 

Petunia. And — paw — why not git a new pair of shoes 
for maw with that one-fifty? She needs 'em fierce. Then 



26 busker's girl 

I can wear her old ones and Lily can wear mine, and Ann 
can take Lily's, and Renie can take Ann's, an' Tote Renie's, 
an' Louise Tote's, an' Nancy Louise's, an' maw can take 
Nancy's an' cut 'era down for the baby. [Comes dowfi R.) 
BusHER. That would be the same as gittin' eight pairs 
of new shoes ! AVha'd'yh think 1 am, Petunie, a million- 
aire? Besides, I've got to git some tobacco and a jug of 
merlasses. 

(^Exit through door, and is heard outside gettifig Stephen 
under way.') 

Helen. Father wants to talk to you about the mill, Mr. 
Ames. 

Ames. I'll go right in. {Goes to door, l. ; stops ivith 
hand on latch.) 1 guess I'll have to come and help you with 
your father, Miss Pride; Petunia can't doit. She isn't 
strong enough. Her heart's affected. 

Helen {iip c, sweetly). Oh, thank you so much, Mr. 
Ames ; that is so sweet of you. 

(Petunia, r., has symptoms on the side again.') 

{Exit Ames, l.) 

Petunia. No, I ain't strong enough. And, besides, Pve 
got to cut hay for the cow and fmish gittin' the stumps out 
o' the breakin'. I can't stand real hard work. 

Helen. Pm so sorry. 

Petunia. Awh, come out o' the brush ! What's the use 
o' lyin' ! You'd a good sight ruther have Lammie help you 
with the old man than to have me. 

Helen {demurely). Well — of course — a man's strength 
is better than a girl's in a case of this kind. 

Petunia. Yeah ! I guess so. You're the kind that can 
allers find a man to carry 'em across the muddy spots in life. 
There's another kind that have to slop right through on their 
own shanks an' dry their own stockin's afterward. Maw 
an' me are in that bunch. 

Helen. Petunia, I believe you are jealous of me. I be- 
lieve you think your sweetheart, Mr, Ames, is falling in love 
with me. 

Petunia {savagely). He ain't my sweetheart ! I tell 
yeh 1 never had a sweetheart ! I wouldn't have him if he 



BU5HER 5 GIRL IJ 

sweat ten-doilar gold pieces ! No 5ir-€e-tcb ! Gettin" dar- 
ned is smhin' fierce. I knovr that by hoi^e : 

Helen. Oh, so far as marning is concerned, neither 
would I marry Mr. Ames 

Petxxll (jifith fire). You don't mean to say you don't 
thir.k he's good enough fur yeh, do you ? 

Helex. Why — of course — he may I "gh 

Petunl^. Good enough! Y:u a! mend his 

trousers! He's a gende: :gh, if he 

does wear woodsmen's b>; - He's kind- 

hearted, he feeds them as is de .firom Stephen 

right down to the cat! He ..^ ...c; ^^ -i :? h:s sister 
Mary 

Heeen {amused^. "Uliv don't vou marrv aim vourscli, 
Petunia? 

Petunla. They's two tt - 
to!d yeh, an' the other is : _ i 

miny girls from marr _ — . 

I'm jasr Jim Busher- . H : - 

else. a~i when a ra^.; . ; ? jc^t 

like a runaway horse — : ■ : r:i.:is 

between his srartiu' an bis sioppm' place 

Helen (Jaughin^). You may be right. Petu: a. 1-: 
never fear; 1 sha'n't marry Mr. Ames; he's not at all my 
kind, you know. 1 wouldn't care to have you tell him I 
said so, because — ^well — ^he has fine eyes, and I like his 
shoulders — and — dear me, but it's deadly dull with father 
out here in the woods ! (Sits daurn l.) 

Petunia (perching on table, r.). So you're willin' to 
break a good young feller's heart all to flinders for the sake 
of passin' away the tinae while you are up here in the 
woods? 

Helen. Oh, not quite that. Petunia. But why : 

I let him amuse me? 

Petl'nla.. Do you want me to tell you what I thinii c f 
that kind of goin* on ? 

Helen. You may if yon like. Your father won't come 
wi:h the mail for some time. 

PimTNiA (^getting down f ram the table). Let me lay this 
skillet out of my hand. I don't know what I might be 
tempted to do with it. (^Carries it hick and leans ity han- 
dJe :dp, against tJu wall near dt7or.) There ! I won't go 
oS home an* fuigit it now. QComes down c. and squares 



28 pusher's girl 

herself in front of Helen.) I think a girl who could do 
what you said just now — ^jest to pass away the time — is a — 
shim ! 

Helen {rising and backing off). What is that — a shim ? 

Petunia (wiih increasing iieat, afid approaching Helen, 
who rises'). A shim's a shingle that's no good. A girl like 
that is jest fit fur the refuse heap, an' that's all ! She be- 
longs in the bonfire at the end of the dump carrier ! {Fol- 
lows Helen a step at a time during Jier acciisatio?i.) That's 
where she belongs, an' that's where she'll git to ! She ain't 
no better' n the man who goes around foolin' girls jest fur 
his own fun ! 

Helen. Petunia 

Petunia. And do you know what I wish on to yeh ? I 
wish that you have to marry a man that you don't care 
nothin' about except fur his money ! And, meantime, I 
pity the man ! 

{Door L. opens and kmv^s appears tugging out Pride, seated 
in his chair. Au^s puffing. ) 

Ames. He's had his nap and his lunch, and he thinks he 
wants to get out into the air again ! {As girls rush to help.) 
Never — mind — 1 guess 1 can — make it. 

Petunia {grasping one side of the chair ivith a jerk). I 
guess I wouldn't everlastin'ly break my back, Lammie — {in 
a hiss close to his ear) even fur love ! 

Pride {stoppi?tg them up c). Wait a minute. You say 
the men are all paid from the proceeds of the last carload, 
and that there are two more cars on the siding being filled? 

Ames {up l. c). Yes, Mr. Pride. You needn't fret 
about the mill ; I think we can keep her running all right 
until you get round again. 

Helen {down l., sweetly). And it's all owing to your 
management, Mr. Ames. 

Pride {i?n patiently). He ought to exert himself.. If it 
hadn't been for his detestable stairs I should have been at- 
tending to the mill myself. Hasn't that man Busher come 
back from the store yet ? 

Ames. He hasn't had time to get to the store and back 
yet unless he overdrives Stephen. 

Pride. I sent him for arnica. Anything to get him and 
his detestable old bottles of dope out of my sight i 

Helen. Hsh-h-h-h ! 



BUSHER S GIRL IQ 

Petunia {iip r.). Don't mind me; I've heard folks talk 
like that before. I've got to go now. Mavv'll bepavvin' the 
air fur the skillet. 

(^Goes to door, up R. Sounds of rapid arrival outside, 
Stephen being lashed to a wild finish by Busher.) 

Ames. Hear that fool drive that mule ! 

Petunia {cackling^. Hear Lanunie make poetry. 

(^E liter Busher at door up r. c, loaded with packages. He 
stumbles over skillet, staggers, catches himself^ growling 
inaledictions under his breath.~) 

Busher {^piling bundles on table ^ l., going back a7id pick- 
ing up skillet^. Petunie, ain't you gone home yet with this 
skillet? (^Coines dozvn c.) 

Petunia. Oli, yes, I'm home, an' the skillet's on the 
stove full of fryin' meat. 

Busher. What in thunder you hangin' round Ames' 
house for all the time? Ain't yeh got no pride, girl? 

Helen (eagerly). Was there any mail, Mr. Busher? 

Busher. Yes. 

Pride. Letters? 

Busher. No, a letter. 

Helen (clasping and unclasping her fingers). Was — 
was the — the letter for me, Mr. Busher ? 

Busher {putting bottle on table, l. ). There's the ar- 
nica (Goes back toivard door?) Whoa, Stephen! 

(Returns to table, l.) And there's the plaster ; and there's 
the rose-water (Puts articles on table.) 

Helen (impatiently). The letter ! The letter, please ! 

Busher (c, to Petunia). Go put that skillet into the 
wagon. I'm goin' to drive over home with our things. 

Petunia [up r., hopefully). Did yeh git maw's shoes? 

Busher (coming do7vn r.). No, didn't have money 
enough left. Got the merlasses and the tobacco. 

(Petunja disappointed.) 

Pride. Come, come — dig up the letter and get us out 
of our suspense ! 

(Busher, havins^ entirely unburdened himself, sits doivn near 
table, R., deliberately puts hand in right coat pocket, then 
left pocket, stretches right leg in order to seat ch right- 
haiid pocket f then left the same ; looks dazed.) 



30 



BUSHER S GIRL 



BusHER. Petunie, go see if I dropped that there letter in 
the wagon. 

{^Exit Petunia, door up r. Busher goes through pocket 
business all over agaiii. ) 

Pride. I think you might have used a little care ! 
Helen. Abominable ! Can't you remember whether 
the letter was for me or not ? 

(^Enter Petunia, r. c.) 

Petunia. 'Tain't in the wagon. 

Pride. You had better drive the mule back along the 
road. You will probably find the letter. 

Busher. Well — after I've had my supper. 

Helen. Then it will be too late ! Some one else will 
have picked it up ! 

(Petunia a7id Ames look out the door for the letter. Busher 
takes off hat, leaving the letter i?i plaifi sight on the top 
of his head while he wipes the inside of hat with hand- 
kerchief.') 

Busher. Funniest thing ! Pd 'a' sworn I put that let- 
ter 

(Helen, Petunia and Ames see the letter simultaneously. 
They swoop down upon him. Business. Helen gets 
letter, reads superscription.') 

Helen. <'Mr. Lambert Ames"! Oh, Pm so disap- 
pointed ! 

Pride {with a groan). I was in hopes it was good news 
from Houghton and Hall. 

Ames. For me? it must be from Mary. {Coynes douni 
C. , takes letter, gazes at it in bewilderment for some time. ) 
It's from my Buffalo aunt. 

Helen [down l. c). Your rich aunt? 

Petunia {down r. c). I didn't know your aunt was a 
buffalo. 

Busher {down r.). If she has sent him money it's up to 
him to treat, eh, Pride? {Adjusts glasses and peers over 
Ames' shoulder.) it's from Buffalo, all right. 



BUSHER S GIRL 3 I 

(BusHER goes to extreme R. Ames goes r. Sits in chair 
vacated by Busher and deliberately takes out pocket-kfiife 
with which to open letter. Petunia picks up skillet and 
goes np c. Helen about to exit, l. Ames utifolds letter. 
Busher still adjusting glasses and trying to read over 
Ames' right shoulder. Pride nursing his bandages up c.) 

Ames (^rising in sudden excitement). It's from my aunt ! 

Pride (^hitching his chair down l. c). You told us that 
before. 

Ames. She's dead ! 

Busher. Dead ! 

Helen. How can it be from your aunt if she's 

Ames {doivn r. c). She's left me two hundred thousand 
dollars ! 

(Petunia staggers against the door up c, ajid as she spreads 
out her arms tile skillet clatters to the floor.) 

PuiDE {^forgetting his breakages^ hobbles down L., shout- 
ing). Two hundred thousand dollars ! Two hundred thou- 
sand dollars ! 

Helen {extreme l.). Oh, Mr. Ames, what good for- 
tune ! How happy I am for you. 

(Petunia takes a step or two down c.) 

Ames. Thank you. I — can't — quite realize it yet. {Sud- 
denly turns to Petunia.) Tunie, girl, Pm a rich man. 
What do you think of that? {He holds out the letter to 
her. Petunia takes it from him mechanically, then sud- 
denly throws it fiercely on the floor , stamps o?i //, covers 
her face with her hands, bursts into tears, and runs out up 
R. c. Ames runs tip to door after her, calling.) Tunie ! 
Tunie 1 

(Helen laughs lightly.) 



CURTAIN 



ACT III 

SCENE. — Same as Act I. Cot bed R. instead of table 
down L. 

(Ames discovered sitting with feet stretched out in front of 
hiniy hands in pockets and an unhappy scowl upon his 
face. Enter Pride, up r. c, walki?ig with a cafie but 
briskly?) 

Pkide. Well, Lambert, I've just been down to the mill. 
Everything going on splendidly. I see you have your rig 
at the door; were you driving to the store? If so 1 should 
like to ride down with you 

Ames {eagerly'). All right, Mr. Pride, you take the mule, 
and I won't have to go. 

Pride. Certainly, if you wish, dear boy. Where is 
Helen ? 

Ames. She's up-stairs getting ready to go to the store. 

Pride. Oh, you were intending to drive her down ? 

Ames. No, 1 was intending to drive Stephen, but Miss 
Pride was going with me. 

Pride. Certainly ! Certainly, the drive will do you 
good, and you can, if you will, do my errand. 

Ames. 1 was only going to accommodate Miss Pride. I 
didn't want to go. I've got some work to do out at the 
hen-house — fix a window and make some new nest- boxes. 
I've been neglecting my hens; they're not laying as they 
should at this time of the year. 

Pride. Suit yourself, Lambert, although I'm afraid a 
certain young lady will be somewhat disappointed. And — 
really, you know, it can't make very much difference to 
you — now — whether the hens lay or not. A dozen eggs a 
day is a small matter. In fact, you'll be selling your little 
place here, I presume. 

Ames. I don't know. Where should I go if I should 
sell this place ? 

Pride. Why, my dear fellow, you would go where you 
could enjoy life — see something of the world and its ways. 
You would go to Chicago — New York — Europe 

32 



BUSHER S GIRL 33 

Ames {impatiently). I see more life right here and now 
than 1 can understand. 

Pride. You must remember that a man with as much 
money as you now have owes something to society. He 
must make himself a place in the world ; build a reasonable 
and decent home; marry a wife who is fitted by education 
and bearing to grace such a home; he ought to dress like a 
gendeman 

Ames {i?iterruptiiig). Speaking of dress, Mr. Pride, did 
you or your daughter see anything of my other boots? 
When I bought these new ones yesterday I thought I left 
the old ones in the house here somewhere. 

Pride. You did. You left them sprawling on a chair. 
Helen picked them up when she was tidying the room and 
asked me to put them away. I knew you would never use 
them any more, so I carried them down and threw them on 
the refuse heap 

Ames. To burn up ? Perfectly good boots ? Why, 
there was a year's wear in those boots ! 

{Takes hat frotn nail and starts for door.) 

Pride {apologetically). Awfully sorry, Lambert. I 
wouldn't for the world have meddled with your belongings 
if I had dreamed you would ever want the boots again. But 
I sort of considered them — your chrysalis, so to speak. 

Ames {repressing his anger). Oh, well — never mind. 
It's all right. Maybe you didn't get them into the fire. 
I'll go right away and see if there's anything left of them. 

{Exit up R. c. As he goes out Helen opens stair door. 
Is discovered on third step from bottom coming down 
backwards.) 

m^iMiSi {reaching floor). Horrible stairs ! {Looks about.) 
I'm ready at last. Oh, you here, papa ? Where is Lambert ? 

Pride. Gone to look after his chrysalis. His butterfly 
wings don't seem to be drying out and unfolding to any 
great extent. Well, what progress have you made? You've 
had a week. You should have been engaged by this time. 
Are you going to let him slip through your fingers, as you 
did old Shockton ? 

Helen. I can't force him to engage himself to me, 
can 1 ? {Abnost weeping.) 



34 



BUSHER S GIRL 



Pride. You didn't seem to have any trouble fascinating 
him when he was poor. You wept on his shoulder, I re- 
member. I tell you, Helen, we must get hold of some of 
this money ! 

Helen {down l. c). You've already gotten hold of some 
of it, haven't you? Hasn't he promised to finance the 
shingle mill ? 

Pride {dowfi l.). Rot! What does that amount to? 
We want the fortune in the family ! Hasn't he melted 
toward you at all ? 

Helen. Not to speak of. He lets me call him Lambert. 

Pride. Exceedingly condescending ! And he calls you 
Helen, 1 presume ? 

Helen. No, he prefers to call me Miss Pride. Some- 
times I think he's in love with that girl of Busher's. 

Pride. Possible, but not probable. {Knock at door 
up R. c.) Come in. 

{^Enier Bvsher,* carrying a sizable bundle done up in 
newspaper.) 

BusHER. I should like to speak to Mr. Lambert Ames. 

Pride {brusquely). Well, you see, I presume that he 
isn't here. 

Busher. He can't be very far away ; I see his mule 
hitched out here. 

Pride. My daughter and I are about to drive down to 
the store. 

Busher {coming down r.). Taking your pleasure rides 
and your good times with no thought of other people's 
sorrows ! 

Helen. Dear me, Mr. Busher, what is the matter ? 

Busher {melodramatically'). Can a father stand by an' 
see his own chi-e-ld chr-r-u-shed to earth, never to rise again, 
yet say nothing? {To Pride.) I ask you — you who are 
yourself a parent — can he? 

PuiDfc; (briskly). I don't catch your drift. 

Busher. My daughter is a broken-hearted maiden, sir ! 
And this young two-hundred-thousand-dollar gentleman is 
the breaker ! The proof of his perfidy is right there in this 
bundle, sir ! Yes, sir ! In this here bundle, sir ! I'm 
a-gonto sue him fur — ah — ah — alienatin' the affections of my 
girl, sir ! He's a deep-dyed villain an' Pm a-gonto prove 
it in a court of law ! 



BUSHER S GIRL 



35 



Pride. Nonsense, Busher, don't make a fool of yourself. 
You can't do anything with Ames. He has money, and 
you haven't. And, besides, can't you see, Busher, that the 
fact of Ames coming into this fortune makes any thought of 
marriage with your girl impossible? Ames must choose a 
wife who will be a credit to him. 

Busher. He must, must he? Very well, then he must 
pay fur the privilege ! 

Pride {to Helen). Did you ever know of Ames making 
love to this girl ? 

Helen. 1 never knew of his making love to any girl. I 
don't think he is capable of making love. 

Busher. He has engaged my daughter's affections, an* 
I have the proof right there in that bundle. And to think 
how I've been a father to those Ames children, both Mary 
an' Lambert ! I've doctored 'em in sickness and in health ! 
Through my ministrations neither one of 'em has ever had a 
wart — and now in my old age an' penury — and them with 
two hundred thousand dollars — an' livin' in the best house 
in the neighborhood, a house that I designed 

Helen. Did you design the stairs, Mr. Busher ? 

Busher. I did. 

Helen. For pity's sake why did you make them so per- 
pendicular, and with such horrid shallow treads ? 

Busher. Madam, you see if I hadn't made the stairs 
straight up and down with narrow treads they would have 
stuck out of that upper window about eight feet. Then when 
you got to the top of the stairs instead of bein' on your way 
to bed you'd 'a' found yourself outdoors in the upper 
branches of an apple tree. See ? It takes a good deal of 
practical skill to design stairs, let me tell yeh. Yes, I de- 
signed them stairs, and now look what pay I'm gittin' for it ! 

Pride. I don't think anything which could possibly hap- 
pen to you would pay you for having built that flight of 
stairs ! They can't really be called a flight of stairs ; they're 
a shot of stairs ! Come, Helen, if we are going to the store 
we must start. 

{Enter Ames, 7ip r. c.) 

Ames (over his shoulder). Whoa, Stephen ! Behave 
yourself! (7> Pride.) He's — getting pretty restless, Mr. 
Pride. (^Comes dow?i c.) . He always did hate waiting at 
a hitching-post. (^Exit up r. c, Pride and Helen, she 



^6 busher's girl 

with a wi7i7ii7ig backiuard smile at Ames.) I think I'd bet- 
ter see you under way. 

(^Exit up R. c, after Pride and Helen. Busher goes l., 
strikes attitude^ clears his throat, a?id begins his re- 
hearsal.') 

Busher. I have come for an explanation ! {The begins 
fling does not suit him. Puts bundle under other arm, clears 
throat again, assumes t/ireatening attitude. Relinquishes 
it to change position of his feet. Begins again.) 1 have 
come to demand justice for my wronged child ! 

(^Is pleased with the phrasing, repeats the sente?ice.) 

{Enter Ames, who looks eagerly about the room.) 

Ames. Who are you talking to, Busher? I thought 
Tunie was here. Where is she, Busher? I haven't had a 
slant at her since the blow fell. 

Busher {business with attitude and getting butidlejust 
right). I have come to demand justice 

Ames. Sit down, sit down, Jim ; you never could talk 
standing up. What's the idea? And before you begin I 
want to ask again what's become of Tunie? I'm homesick 
to see her. I've been over to your house four times, but she 
has always been away 

Busher. You're a good one to talk about my girl — after 
breakin' her heart 

Ames {coming down c). What are you raving about 
now? 

Busher. You've broken her heart ! 

Ames. I? 

Busher. Yes, sir, you ! an' you're a-gonto pay for it in 
the law courts ! Understand you'll find out that you can't 
trifle with a young girl's feelin's, an' then because you git a 
little money run off an' marry the mill boss's daughter ! No, 
sir ! Not with old Doc. Busher at the saw ! 

Ames. Who said I was going to marry the boss's 
daughter? 

Busher. Everybody says so. 

Ames. Well, everybody's mistaken — I'm not. (Busher 
rises.) Sit down ! Sit down ! You can't think standing 



BUSHER S GIRL 



37 



up. (BusHER sifSj L.) Now, what's to pay about Tunie ? 
I want to see Tunie; there are two or three things I want to 
tell her 

BusHER. You'll never see Petunie Busher again ! She's 
gone to the city to work out ! 

Ames (eagerly). Did she say it was on my account? 

Busher. No, she said it was on my account. She said 
she an' her maw an' the children didn't have enough to eat, 
but that of course was an excuse 

Ames. Did she mention me at all ? 

Busher (j-ising). She did. 

Ames {savagely). Sit down, I tell you, and give me the 
whole output. What did Tunie say about me? 

(Busher sits, l.) 

Busher. Said she couldn't bear the sight of you, 
but 

Ames. Just as I expected. What brought out the re- 
mark? I suppose you were urging her to make up to me 
now that I have money ! 

Busher. 1 merely said 

Ames. Never mind — I see it all ! You've just naturally 
disgusted the girl with your tommyrot ! Tunie's not the 
girl to hanker after a fellow's money — nor after the fellow 
himself 

Busher. Petunie is passionately in love with you ! 

Ames. Eh? If you can prove that I'll marry her by 
force ! I like Tunie better than anybody on earth 

Busher (^Jubilant, Jumping up and coming toward Amy^s, 
who wards him off). My dear boy 

Ames. Keep off! Keep off! There is only one im- 
provement 1 could ask for in Tunie — if 1 am to marry 
her 

Busher. What's that, Lambert ? What improvement is 
that? By gracious, it shall be made. I'll see to it myself! 

Ames. Tunie would be about perfect in my eyes if she 
was an orphan on her father's side. 

Busher. Ha, ha ! You will have your joke, won't you ? 

Ames. I'm not joking; but goon with your story. How 
do you know Tunie cares for me? 

Busher. Well, first thing I knew Petunie had her bag 
packed and was going. 1 tried to stop her, but it was no 



38 busker's girl 

go ; she had the skids under her for the city. I says, " You 
big dummy, to blow just as a millionaire has broke out in 
the neighborhood." 1 says, ** What's a-taking you, any- 
how ? " 1 says, ** Why don't you have a whack at marrying 
Lambert Ames ' ' 

Ames. And I know just exactly what she said. She said 
she wouldn't marry me if 1 were hung ten feet thick with 
diamonds, — I've heard that before — and I don't believe she 
would, either ! 

BusHER (fising). Well, she did say something of that 
sort, but — she packed a love token of yourn with her 
things. {Puts bundle Ofi table, L., afid beghis to untie it.) 
I opened her baggage to see what she had in it to make it 
bulge so 

Ames. A love token? Something I had given her? 

BusHER {still struggling with the string around the 
bundle). No, something she found. I went down to the 
refuse burner yes't'dy and there I found a perfectly good 
pair of boots, an' I picked 'em up an' took 'em home. 

(^He draws the boots from the paper and holds them up.) 

Ames. Tunie was carrying off my boots ? 

BusHER. To remember you by. 

Ames {taking the boots). Bless her heart ! Busher, do 
you honestly think she cares for me that way? 

Busher {delightedly). Certainly she does. 

Ames. Why in thunder, then, did she always make out 
she didn't care a whoop for me ? 

Busher. Lambert, you don't know much about the 
female sect. I've had Julia tell me to my face that she 
wished to God she'd never married me ! 

Ames {putting boots under the cot, r.). Where is Tunie 
now? 

Busher. Down to the mill waitin' for the loggin' train 
to come up. 

Ames {starting for the door). I want to talk with 
her 

Busher {catching him by the coat-tails). Hold back ! 
Whoa ! She won't hsten to a two-hundred-thousand-dollar 
gink ! Petunie's got to be approached, not through pride 
or avarice, but through sympathy — see ? Now, if you can 
manage to fall down-stairs an' break your leg — dislocate 



BUSHER S GIRL 



39 



your shoulder as old Pride did — knock out your teeth, bung 
out one eye 

{h.UKS Jerks a sheet from cot- bed a?id begins to tear it into 
bandages. Thrusts strips ifito Busker's hands.) 

Ames. Ail right. Here, tie me up, and be quick about 

it ! Then run to the mill {Looks at watch.) Twenty 

minutes before the logging train is due ! {Takes off coat.) 
Tell Tunie I've lost all my money 

(Busker begins turnirig Ames into a pitiable wreck. Band- 
ages headf leg, arm ifi slings etc. Ames lies on cot, k.) 

{Enter Pride and Helen, the former carrying the mail, 
packages, etc.) 

Helen {in alarm). Good heavens — what is the matter ? 

{Runs to Ames. Busker wards her off.) 

Busker. Keep away ! Don't excite him ! There's been 
a horrible accident — fell down-stairs — smashed himself to 
flinders ! One leg's got to come off, and I don't know but 
both ! 

(Ames groans.) 

Helen. Horrors ! 

Busker. Yes, that's what I say — horrors — but it can't 
be helped now ! 

Pride {coming down l., and throwing mail on table). 
Those confounded stairs again ! 

Busker {crossing l. and picking up letter from table). 
What's this, a letter for Lambert? I'll have to read it. 
( Goes R., breaks seal, reads.) Great Catacombs ! Trouble 
never comes singly ! There's been a mistake ! The — er — 
old lady left all the money to Lambert's cousin instead of to 
Lambert ! Similarity of names caused the mistake — lawyers 
got the name mixed ! Be ca'm, Lambert, my boy — be 
ca'm ! {As Helen turns to her father, Busker kicks 
Ames.) Groan or something ! You're just maimed and 
beggared — you ain't dead ! (Ames groans.) Mr. Pride, 
would you be willing to drive the mule down to the mill 
after my girl, Petunie ? 

Pride {arrogantly). I've been errand boy for this estab- 
lishment quite enough for one day. I have some business 



40 BUSHER S GIRL 

of my own to attend to. What's the imperative need for 
your daughter's presence, anyway ? 

Helen. I'll go. 

Pride. You'll do nothing of the sort ! You couldn't 
drive that mule. You know how he acted just now on the 
way home. 

Helen. I'll go on foot for Petunia, then. We must 
certainly have some one to help do the work here now — 
with another wreck in the house. 

(Ames groans. Exit Helen, up r. c.) 

Busher. Have you unharnessed Stephen ? 

Pride. No, and what's more, I don't intend to unhar- 
ness Stephen. I shall need what few brains I have to run 
the shingle mill now that Ames is off the turf, {Goes up r., 
hangs up coat and hat a?id goes to cupboard up c. Searches 
shelves i high and low, hungrily^) 1 wish some one would 
do a little cooking in this house. I'm as hungry as a wolf ! 

Ames {Jiopefully). Tunie will slap up some biscuit when 

she comes. I'm starved myself (Busher kicks him 

on the side and Ames adds hastily.) It's the death appe- 
tite, I'm afraid. 

Busher (to Pride). You'd better bring in an armful of 
wood and git the fire under way against Petunie's coming. 

Pride (^glaring at hini). I'll go hungry first ! 

( Comes down l. ) 

Busher. All right, go hungry, then. It serves you 
right. If there's anything I despise it's laziness ! 

(^Au^s snickers. 'Qxjsb.^'r pinches him; he groans. Petunia 
comes flying in up r. c. followed by Helen.) 

Petunia {rushing to Ames). Why, Lammie, you poor 
old Siwash, what luck you're a-havin' ! Ain't it rotten? 

(Helen co7nes down l. c.) 

Ames {groaning). I don't know what's to become of 
me, Tunie — nobody to care whether I live or die ! 

(Busher goes up c.) 

Petunia. Awh, now you're away out in the brush ! I 
care, and I'm goin' to stand right by with the cant-hook ! 
You git me? {Sits on floor by Ames.) 



BUSHER S GIRL 41 

Ames. Tunie, you can't take care of me unless 

Petunia. Unless what, Lammie? 

Ames. Unless we are married. 

BusHER {briskly). What d'yeh say, Petunie? You say 
yes, of course. (^Cornes down r. c. to her.) You must be 
careful — any sudden jar or disappomtment 

Petunia (rising). What — me in the holy bonds of pad- 
lock? Oh, 1 can't — I won't. 1 said 1 wouldn't. Are you 
dead sure, Lammie, that you want to marry me ? 

Ames. Oh, dead sure, Tunie. So sure that when I was 
in town the other day 1 got a marriage license for you and 
me, hoping something lucky might turn up, and you see it 
has. 

(JSits tip and starts to put hand iti pocket ; Busher restrains 

him.) 

Busher. Don't do that ! Don't do that — d'want to 
break your arm right off? Here, let me git it. 

(^Fishes in Ames' pocket, produces paper ^ which he exaf?iines 
ivith deli gilt.) 

Ames. As I told your fatlier when I asked him if I might 
speak to you, I'm perfectly sure about wishing to be a hus- 
band. The thing which stuck in my craw was being a — 
ha ! — forgive me, Tunie — a son-in-law ! 

Petunia. Yes — well — that's just it. I ain't no hand to 
go back on my kin. You'd have to be a son-in-law to paw 
and brother-in-law to the boys, and to Lily, Ann, Renie, 
Tote, Louise an' Nancy. No, sir. It would make yours 
truly do some swift skatin' 'round to support the hull bunch. 

Ames. Don't you think you can do it, Tunie? Please. 

Petunia. Oh, 1 could do it. I'm a tough little cayuse. 
I guess under the whup I could start the load. I suppose I 
could git some washin' to take in — to do while I'm restin', 
you know. Oh, I could do it — but will I ? 

Busher. Aw, quit yer foolin', Petunie. As Justice of 
the Peace, I'll marry you myself. I'll git yer maw. 

{Starts for door, but stops when Helen speaks.) 

Helen (l. c). Really, you'd better take him, Petunia, 
and I might as well tell you now I am going to be married 
soon myself. 



42 BUSHER S GIRL 

Petunia. What ! 

Pride {doivn l.). Helen, what do you mean? 

Helen. Yes, papa, I got the letter to-day. 

Petunia {standing near cot, r.). Oh, dear me, that 
rich old soak? Don't yeh do it ! I wished it on yeh, but I 
take it back. I do. If you must get married, — marry for 
love. 

Helen. That's exactly what I'm goin* to do. You 
hear, father ? Harold Lamar is poor, but he wants me, and 
I'm going to marry him in spite of everybody. 

Petunia {going /^ Helen). Good girl. {Kisses her.) 
That's the talk. If I loved a man, an' he loved me, nothin' 
could come between us — nothin*. 

Ames. Tunie. 

Petunia {her face turned away from hiffi). What? 

(Ames draivs the boots fro?n under the cot and holds them up.) 

Ames. Tunie, look here. 
(Petunia turns and sees the boots. She rushes to seize them . ) 

Petunia. Why, Lammie Ames, where'd you git them 
boots ? I 

Ames {drawi?ig her down beside the cot). Oh, Tunie, 
Tunie, can you still say you don't love me? 

Petunia. Yes. {He draws her closer to him.') No. 
Oh, Lammie Ames, you good-for-nothin' 

{She buries her face on his shoulder.) 

Ames. Well, I guess that's settled, then. 

BusHER. Hurray ! I'll go over now an' git Julia and 
the children. We'll all move right in with you, I think, 
Lambert. 

(Ames shakes his head, laughing. Exit Busher up r. c.) 

Ames. We'll see about that. (71? Pride.) Has Stephen 
been unhitched and fed? 

Pride. Not being stable boy, I can't say. 

Petunia {rising). I'll see to Stephen, Lammie. Now 
don't git your blood all het up. 

Ames. No, you won't. You're not Busher' s girl now. 
You're my girl. {Springs up suddenly, goes l., and grasps 
Vyxvd^ by the back of the collar.) You old rascal ! {Girls 



BUSHER S GIRL 



43 



both cry out,) There, I toted you in and dragged you out 
when you were all broken up, and now when I've had the 
same misfortune you stand on your dignity and let a poor 
old faithful animal go without his feed and water ! {Drags 
him to door up R. c, opens it a?id heaves him out.) Now 
you unhitch that mule and feed him ! 1 think I'm going to 
be well enough to tend to the hens and the dog myself! 

Petunia {down r., indignantiy). Lammie Ames, you 
old water-soaked cull ! You been lyin' to me ? 

Ames (cojning down R. c. and throwing off bandages). 
No, Tunie, your father understands that business better 
than I. He did the lying for me. 

Helen (l.). And haven't you lost your money after all ? 

Ames {down r. c, grinning sheepishly at her as he un- 
winds his bandages). My — er — money? 

Petunia. Ain't yeh, Lammie? Ain't yeh? You own 
up, now ! 

Ames. We shall have enough left for a few luxuries. 
For instance, we'll carpet the stairs, and let Cat-Betsy keep 
all her kittens 

(^Back door opens to admit Busher, three or four boys, 
Lily, Ann, Renie, Tote, Louise atid Nancy, and Mrs. 
Busher beariftg a baby in her arms. Each Busher bears 
some article of household furniture, the more bulky and 
ridiculous the better. They fill the stage, Ames, laugh' 
ing, takes Petunia iti his arms and kisses her,) 



curtain 



Unusually Good Entertainments 

Read One or More of These Before Deciding on 
Your Next Program 

GRADUATION DAY AT W^OOD HILL SCHOOL. 
An Entertainment in Two Acts, by Ward Macauley. For six 
males and four females, with several minor parts. Time of 
playing, two hours. Modern costumes. Simple interior scenes; 
may be presented in a hail without scenery. The unusual com- 
bination of a real "entertainment," including music, recitations, 
etc., with an interesting love story. The graduation exercises 
include short speeches, recitations, songs, funny interruptions, 
and a comical speech by a country school trustee. Price, 15 
cents. 

EXAMINATION DAY AT WOOD HILL SCHOOL. 

An Entertainment in One Act, by Ward Macauley. Eight male 
and six female characters, with minor parts. Plays one hour. 
Scene, an easy interior, or may be given without scenery. Cos- 
tumes, modern. Miss Marks, the teacher, refuses to marry a 
trustee, who threatens to discharge her. The examination in- 
cludes recitations and songs, and brings out many funny answers 
to questions. At the close Robert Coleman, an old lover, claims 
the teacher. Very easy and very effective. Price, 15 cents. 

BACK TO THE COUNTRY STORE. A Rural Enter- 
tainment in Three Acts, by Ward Macauley. For four male 
and five female characters, with some supers. Time, two hours. 
Two scenes, both easy interiors. Can be played effectively with- 
out scenery. Costumes, modern. All the principal parts are 
sure hits. Quigley Higginbotham, known as "Quig," a clerk in 
a country store, aspires to be a great author or singer and 
decides to try his fortunes in New York. The last scene is in 
Quig's home. He returns a failure but is offered a partnership 
in the country store. He pops the question in the midst of a 
surprise party given in his honor. Easy to do and very funny. 
Price, 15 cents. 

THE DISTRICT CONVENTION. A Farcical Sketch 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont. For eleven males and one 
female, or twelve males. Any number of other parts or super- 
numeraries may be added. Plays forty-five minutes. No special 
scenery is required, and the costumes and properties are all 
easy. The play shows an uproarious political nominating con- 
vention. The climax comes when a woman's rights cham- 
pion, captures the convention. There is a great chance to bur- 
lesque modern politics and to work in local gags. Every 
part will make a hit. Price, 15 cents. 

SI SLOCUM'S COUNTRY STORE. An Entertainment 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont. Eleven male and five female 
characters with supernumeraries. Several parts may be doubled. 
Plays one hour. Interior scene, or may be played without set 
scenery. Costumes, modern. The rehearsal for an entertain- 
ment in the village church gives plenty of opportunity for 
specialty work. A very jolly entertainment of the sort adapted 
to almost any place or occasion. Price, 15 cents. 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



Unusually Good Eotertainments 

Read One or More of These Before Deciding on 
Your Next Program 

A SURPRISE PARTY AT BRINKLEY'S. An En- 
tertainment in One Scene, by Ward Macauley. Seven male and 
seven female characters. Interior scene, or may be given with- 
out scenery. Costumes, modern. Time, one hour. By the 
author of the popular successes, "Graduation Day at Wood Hill 
School," "Back to the Country Store," etc. The villagers have 
planned a birthday surprise party for Mary Brinkley, recently 
graduated from college. They all join in jolly games, songs, 
conundrums, etc., and Mary becomes engaged, vi'hich surprises 
the surprisers. The entertainment is a sure success. Price, 15 centSv 

JONES VS. JINKS. A Mock Trial in One Act, by 
Edward Mumford. Fifteen male and six female characters, with 
supernumeraries if desired. May be played all male. Many of the 
parts (members of the jury, etc.) are small. Scene, a simple 
interior ; may be played without scenery. Costumes, modern. 
Time of playing, one hour. This mock trial has many novel 
features, unusual characters and quick action. Nearly every 
character has a funny entrance and laughable lines. There are 
many rich parts, and fast fun throughout. Price, 15 cents. 

THE SIGHT-SEEING CAR. A Comedy Sketch in One 
Act, by Ernest M. Gould. For seven males, two females, or 
may be all male. Parts may be doubled, with quick changes, so 
that four persons may play the sketch. Time, forty-five minutes. 
Simple street scene. Costumes, modern. The superintendent 
of a sight-seeing automobile engages two men to run the 
machine. A Jew, a farmer, a fat lady and other humorous 
characters give them all kinds of trouble. This is a regular gat- 
ling-gun stream of rollicking repartee. Price, 15 cents. 

THE CASE OF SMYTHE VS. SMITH. An Original 
Mock Trial in One Act, by Frank Dumont. Eighteen males 
and two females, or may be all male. Plays about one hour. 
Scene, a county courtroom ; requires no scenery ; may be played 
in an ordinary hall. Costumes, modern. This entertainment is 
nearly perfect of its kind, and a sure success. It can be easily 
produced in any place or on any occasion, and provides almost 
any number of good parts. Price, 15 cents. 

THE OLD MAIDS' ASSOCIATION. A Farcical Enter- 
tainment in One Act, by Louise Latham Wilson. For thirteen 
females and one 'male. The male part may be played by a 
female, and the number of characters increased to twenty or 
more. Time, forty minutes. The play requires neither scenery 
nor properties, and very little in the way of costumes. Can 
easily be prepared in one or two rehearsals. Price, 25 cents. 

BARGAIN DAY AT BI^OOMSTEIN'S. A Farcical 
Entertainment in One Act, by Edvv'ard Mumford. For five males 
and ten females, with supers. Interior scene. Costumes, mod- 
ern. Time, thirty minutes. The characters and the situations 
which arise from their endeavors to buy and sell make rapid-fire 
fun from start to finish. Price, 15 cents. 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



Successful Plays for All Girls 

In Selecting Your Next Play Do Not Overlook This List 

YOUNG DOCTOR DEVINE. A Farce in Two Acts, 
by Mrs. E. J. H. Goodfellow. One of the most popular 
plays for girls. For nine female characters. Time in 
playing, thirty minutes. Scenery, ordinary interior. Mod- 
ern costumes. Girls in a boarding-school, learning that a 
young doctor is coming to vaccinate all the pupils, eagerly con- 
sult each other as to the manner of fascinating the physician. 
When the doctor appears upon the scene the pupils discover that 
the physician is a female practitioner. Price, 15 cents. 

SISTER MASONS. A Burlesque in One Act, by Frank 
DuMONT. For eleven females. Time, thirty minutes. Costumes, 
fantastic gowns, or dominoes. Scene, interior. A grand expose 
of Masonry. Some women profess to learn the secrets of a 
Masonic lodge by hearing their husbands talk in their sleep, 
and they institute a similar organization. Price, 15 cents. 

A COMMANDING POSITION. A Farcical Enter- 
tainment, by Amelia Sanford. For seven female char- 
acters and ten or more other ladies and children. Time, one 
hour. Costumes, modern. Scenes, easy interiors and one street 
scene. Marian Young gets tired living with her aunt, Miss 
Skinflint. She decides to "attain a commanding position." 
Marian tries hospital nursing, college settlement work and 
school teaching, but decides to go back to housework. Price, 15 
cents. 

HOW A WOMAN KEEPS A SECRET. A Comedy 
in One Act, by Frank Dumont. For ten female characters. 
Time, half an hour. Scene, an easy interior. Costumes, modern. 
Mabel Sweetly has just become engaged to Harold, but it's "the 
deepest kind of a secret." Before announcing it they must win 
the approval of Harold's uncle, now in Europe, or lose a possible 
ten thousand a year. At a tea Mabel meets her dearest friend. 
Maude sees Mabel has a secret, she coaxes and Mabel tells her. 
But Maude lets out the secret in a few minutes to another 
friend and so the secret travels. Price, 15 cents. 

THE OXFORD AFFAIR. A Comedy in Three Acts, 
by Josephine H. Cobb and Jennie E. Paine. For eight female 
characters. Plays one hour and three-quarters. Scenes, inter- 
iors at a seaside hotel. Costumes, modern. The action of the 
play is located at a summer resort. Alice Graham, in order to 
chaperon herself, poses as a widow, and Miss Oxford first claims 
her as a sister-in-law, then denounces her. The onerous duties 
of Miss Oxford, who attempts to serve as chaperon to Miss 
Howe and Miss Ashton in the face of many obstacles, furnish 
an evening of rare enjoyment. Price 15 cents. 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




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Parkway Building Philadelphia 



